William Bernhardt - Double Jeopardy

A thin smile curled around the huge cigar. Yes, he’d inspired Donny—right into his grave. He must be a great actor if he made Kramer believe he had the remotest iota of grief about Donny’s demise. More like relief; an annoying fly had been swatted—by someone else. He supposed he would eventually have to call Monica and give her the news. He wondered if she might not be as relieved as he was.

Mario had Kramer by the short hairs. He didn’t know why people treated hit men like they were demigods. They were just sociopaths—serial killers who found a way to make a living doing what they enjoyed most. Kramer’s flawless record that he was so goddamn proud of was ruined. Mario hated Moroconi and Byrne and wanted them both rubbed out, but it was almost worth the delay just to see Kramer squirm. Just to have an excuse to get that sick sack of shit out of his organization for good.

Mario chuckled just thinking about the mighty Kramer shooting holes in a bunch of pillows. Thank God he’d had some of his own men on Kramer’s tail, or he would surely have never heard about it. Travis Byrne had shaken Kramer but good. Kramer was a desperate man, losing his grip by inches. Eventually he would make the big mistake, and the world would be a better place as a result.

Mario was enjoying himself for the first time in days when the green phone on his desk rang. He frowned. The ringing was jarring—an intrusion on the little moment of pleasure he had carved out for himself. He considered ignoring it, but realized that would only postpone the inevitable.

“Yes?” he snapped, snatching the phone.

“Sir, it’s Madeline. From the office.”

Right. Madeline. Lucky she identified herself. Madeline—nice legs, big butt. He’d screwed her a few times after he hired her, then forgot about her. Why hadn’t she been fired yet? Just another administrative detail he was going to have to deal with himself. If you want something done right …

“Why are you calling me at home, Madeline?”

“I just wanted to ask you—”

“Forget it, Madeline. It’s over between us. And I told you never to use this number unless it’s an emergency.”

“No, you don’t understand.” There was a protracted pause on the other end of the line. Mario could imagine her dense wheels spinning in their grooves, throwing sparks into a vast void. “Something very … strange happened in the office today.”

“Strange?” Mario put his feet down on the floor. “What do you mean, strange?”

“My Rolodex went blank.”

Another imbecile. Even stupider than Donny. “Look, you know the procedure for ordering office supplies—”

“And then I found the real one outside my door.”

“Madeline, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Start at the beginning and tell me what happened!”

“First, this guy I’ve never seen before enters the office and starts coming on to me like a ton of bricks. I told him to take a hike. I’m not cheap, Mario, you know that. He wanted to get close to me in a bad way. In the office! Can you believe that?”

The only thing Mario couldn’t believe was that the man was unsuccessful. “Is this some stupid ploy to make me jealous, Madeline?”

“Of course not. The thing is, he acted like he was interested in me, but the whole time he kept looking at my desk. Then he started pumping me for your home address. And then, later on, I notice my Rolodex has been replaced by a brand-new blank one, and about ten minutes after that, when I’m on my way to the ladies’ room, I find my Rolodex in the hallway outside the door.”

Mario was finally getting the drift. “Does this Rolodex contain my address?”

After a pregnant pause, Madeline confessed. “It did. The card is missing.”

Mario’s hands tightened into little fists. “And what about our esteemed CEO? Is his address in there?”

“Oh no,” Madeline said hurriedly. “I don’t have his address written down anywhere.”

“Thank God for that.” Mario felt a sudden throbbing between his temples. “Are you sure you don’t know who this stranger was?”

“Sorry. I’ve never seen him before.”

“Have you been reading the newspapers lately? For instance, the articles about Travis Byrne and Alberto Moroconi?”

“Oh no, I don’t read the papers. Don’t watch the TV news either. It’s too depressing.”

Not as depressing as you, you worthless cunt. “Was the man medium-size, dark-haired, rat-faced?”

“Oh, no. That wasn’t him at all.”

So it wasn’t Moroconi. Unfortunately, Mario didn’t know what Byrne looked like well enough to describe him. “All right, Madeline. You did right by calling me. If anything else unusual happens, or if you see that man again, phone me immediately. Understand?”

“Sure. If you like, I could come by the house—”

“That won’t be necessary.” Mario hung up the phone before she had a chance to say another word.

He ground his cigar out on the desk blotter. The holiday was over.

He paced back and forth across his den. Who the hell could it have been? Byrne? The FBI? Even if it hadn’t been Moroconi in the office, he could have sent an accomplice. Come to think of it, if Moroconi asked enough of the old boys, he could probably find Mario’s house. …

This is intolerable, Mario thought. He would not be threatened, especially not in his own home. He hated to give Kramer an entry back into the organization, but … he needed someone he could count on. Someone ruthless. He could always ditch him again later.

Kramer wasn’t in, but Mario left a message with his point man and told him to send Kramer over immediately. As soon as he hung up the phone, he wondered if that was enough. Kramer had been slipping lately. Maybe he should call Tony and tell him to come out with a full security contingent.

Yeah. They could lay a trap and, when his visitor arrived, blow him to kingdom come. Mario would take this minor annoyance and turn it to his own advantage. That’s what his father would’ve done. Damn straight.

He felt his confidence reasserting itself, just as he heard a click that told him the door to the den had been opened.

Mario whirled around and saw Al Moroconi standing not five feet away, a grin smeared across his face, and a snub-nosed revolver clutched in both hands.

“Surprise,” he said.

60

4:30 P.M.

TRAVIS AND CAVANAUGH WERE in the Big-D Pawn Shop, a barred-window emporium in one of the seediest parts of downtown Dallas.

Cavanaugh returned from a back office, her arms loaded with weapons of all shapes and sizes. “I’ve brought a vast assortment so you can have your pick of the lot.”

“Aren’t there registration requirements for handguns? Permits? Waiting periods?”

“Not here. Not for us, anyway. It pays to have friends in low places.”

Travis glanced at the wiry man in the sky-blue leisure suit standing behind the counter. “I’m surprised a prosecution type such as yourself knows about a place like this,” Travis remarked.

“I’m surprised you don’t,” she replied. “You’re the one who represents the scum of the earth on a regular basis. Where do you think your clients get their guns? Kmart?”

“I never ask questions. It’s better that way.”

“I met Floyd back when I was a skip tracer,” she explained. “ ’Bout the same time I met Crescatelli. I did him a favor, too—found a hood who’d stuck him with a lot of fake jewelry. Nothing crooks hate worse than crooks. He couldn’t afford to pay me, so I let it slide. He owed me.”

“You seem to have a lot of outstanding debts.”

“Yeah. Lucky for you, huh?” She spread the array of weaponry across a counter. “Take your pick, Byrne.”